My head was on Honey Bee Café.
On Holland Slimefuck Thorne.
On Kylie Moon.
I don’t give a shit about hockey or championships or rec-league reputations. I care that something has shifted, and I don’t like the direction it’s moving.
Monsters don’t circle forever. They wait until they’re sure.
None of this shit is fair for her—and yet, I fear to the absolute root of my existence that fair’s long gone and danger is well-seated in its place anyway.
I yank the second skate loose and look up to find Cal chest-to-chest with evil himself at the door. I know he heard Holland’s remark about enjoying coffee with Kylie, and this is his way of doing damage control.
Because where he’s steady, I’m an earthquake—I will rock Holland’s shit into the next fucking solar system at the first smart comment, if given the opportunity.
Kane moves to Cal’s back as Holland’s guys, Mark and Evan, step up behind him out of the shadows, and I jump from my spot on the bench and head their direction too.
They don’t have gear bags because they didn’t play tonight, too busy following her to grace us with their normal fake injuries and whiny little bitchiness.
Holland catches my eye, essentially ignoring Cal and Kane, and smiles. “Didn’t make the game,” he says casually. “Busy night.”
He’s trying to bait me into losing my cool or giving away something about how much I know so he has insight into how locked in I am on her, but thankfully, I’m too invested to take it.
I know his tactics. I know his moves. And I know that if he can rile me with a simple remark, Kylie’s already in way more danger than she should be.
“It’s a shame, though,” he continues. “I was really looking forward to kicking some Slater ass.”
Even the curse seems foreign on his silver tongue. I roll my eyes. They might think they’re all fucking mighty, but they’re just a bunch of pussies.
Slow and deliberate, I move closer, easing Cal out of the way so I can give Holland my full attention. “You know the rules. If you didn’t play tonight, you shouldn’t be back here.”
One of his guys shifts, but Holland just holds up a hand. A silent gesture not to react. Quite a fucking pity, to be honest. I have so much anger and so much rage vibrating through my goddamn bones, it’d be cathartic for one of his goons to test me.
“Relax,Garbage Man,” he says, practically spitting. “We were just heading out.”
Garbage Man.I shake my head and smile. Hereallywants me to lose my cool, but I already know these games—how the elites and their gofers load and aim the gun while taping your fucking hand to it and then blame you for pulling the trigger.
And I refuse to leave her to fend for herself against these fucking bloodsucking, power-hungry vultures.
When Holland and his goons don’t move, I point toward the exit.
“The door is that way.”
“Wow, Rook.” Kane lets out a quiet laugh. “They really do need everything spelled out for them.”
Holland’s jaw tightens. “The way I heard it, you’re the ones who sucked at hockey tonight.”
Cal stares at him. “Pretty sure no one is talking about hockey right now.”
Holland’s smile thins. “The Slaters are a little touchy this evening, huh?”
I don’t respond to that, but I don’t have to. It’s a question as obvious as the elephant in the room, and Holland does everything short of acknowledging it completely when he glances toward the door—toward the hallway that leads back to the rink.
TowardKylie.
“Maybe I’ll hang around for a while.” He smiles, observing me closely. “There’s just something about watching her skate, you know…”
My fists clench and my jaw ticks under the strain of my instinctual drive to kill him, and because I can’t without leaving Kylie even more vulnerable than she already is, he gets a hash mark in his win column.
